


Grab and Run

by Barkour



Category: Green Lantern: The Animated Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, cops and robbers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aya (the FBI agent) has been chasing Razer (the thief) for months. Will she ever get him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grab and Run

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a comment Tumblr user inbetweenthelineart made about Razer as a thief. I took it and ran in a wild direction.
> 
> Sorry for how short this is! I'm a little out of practice.

And there he was, a slim man dressed in black. The knife flashed between his fingers. He’d nearly pried the frame open, an inelegant solution for a man who had once tailored a virus to a single bank account.

“Freeze,” said Aya. Her voice did not waver. It never had, but there were many things she had never done before.

He stilled. The museum was dark, quiet but for the minute rasp of his breath, the steady flow of her own. She held her flashlight even, throwing a halo around his head.

Slowly he raised his hands, the knife glinting. He tipped his head back. His hair, black curls, peeked out from beneath his hat, black toque, against his brown nape.

“Oh, no,” he said. The words echoed flatly in the vastness of the gallery. “You’ve caught me.”

“Lower your weapon,” she said, “then turn around.”

He dropped the knife. It clattered on the marble by his foot and then he kicked it away; another strangeness. Here was a man who had carried his blades closely. His heel scraped. He turned.

She saw him squint and then she saw his eyes widen at the corners, even as he turned his face from the light.

“You’re unarmed,” he said.

“I have no need of my firearm,” she said.

She knew he would doubt her. His mouth creased. Bitterly, he judged her. Perhaps she deserved this. She had deserved it before. But then, he had deserved her judgment, too.

“Where’s Jordan?” he asked, scornful. “I’m sure he’s eager to see me in custody again.”

“Jordan isn’t here,” said Aya. She stepped closer, mindful of the distance remaining, mindful of the knife thrown out, away. “I came alone. No one else knows that I am here.”

“And am I supposed to believe you?”

He did not, but when she took another step, her feet leading her inevitably to him, she knew that he wanted to. He hardly blinked. He leaned forward, only so, to breech the distance he would not allow himself to walk.

“Do you wish to?”

“Yes,” he said, “I’m just dying to be arrested,” but his voice hitched.

Aya took another step. She lowered her flashlight. Darkness consumed them both. The shape of him was a rising shadow.

“Is that why you believe I’m here?”

“Why else?”

“Your interrogative is incorrect,” she said.

They nearly touched. His chest swelled. She heard him swallow. In the darkness, the flashlight illuminating only their feet, she imagined the glide of his throat. He did not move.

“Why did you throw away your knife?” she asked him. The flashlight was slick in her hand, and yet she was so calm, now that she was here at last, him before her.

“Why didn’t you arrest me in Gotham?” he asked her in turn.

And there it was. How could she tell him? She hadn’t known why then. 

She’d drawn her gun. He’d a butterfly knife spread in his hand and a painting insured for two million dollars rolled up in a knapsack thrown over his shoulder. It was raining in Gotham that morning. The two scars that ran at odd angles across his face were slicked. The skin beneath his eyes was swollen. She had hunted him across ten states, dogging his footsteps, waiting to catch him as she had known she would. The week before Gotham, they had shared breakfast at a small diner, the thief and the federal agent without proof.

“I was emotionally compromised,” said Aya.

He snarled, “That answers nothing,” his anger as quick now as his smile had been when she had touched his hand over the bill in that little, dirty diner and told him she would pay.

“Then I will answer my question,” she said. “You chose to throw your knife away because you were afraid I would think you wanted to hurt me.”

His breath quickened. He said, “How can you be so sure?”

“Because that is also why I chose not to arrest you,” said Aya. “I did not want to hurt you.”

She reached for his face. His cheek was warm, rough where his scars interrupted the flesh. These were the gifts prison had allowed Razer.

“Aya,” he said, and his hand, fluttering, covered her wrist.

“I followed you,” she said, “because I wanted to find you. Not for justice, but for myself.”

“Aya,” he said again, and her name throbbed in his throat. It split on his tongue.

“Razer,” she said, to tease, and then she rose on her toes and kissed him at last.

The flashlight fell. Light spilled wildly across the walls, over their feet, as it rolled away from them. She didn’t care. Razer’s arms engulfed her. His hands stroked her back, her hips. His mouth opened beneath hers, and Aya pulled him down to her, down so his neck bent and his spine curved, and he breathed her name into her mouth, and she knew she had got him at last.


End file.
